Crowded

I don’t know that I would or could’ve predicted that the dance competition would change my life.  But my life is changed because of it.

It’s not even so much the dancing or the competition as it was the realization that there are many reasons people dance.  There are many types of people who dance.  There are many ways to dance the same music.

Regardless, the minute the music came on, I wanted to be one of the ones dancing.

It started the night before when, after returning from Broadway we peeked our heads in to the ballroom to check out the venue.  The lights were low with a strobe light stirring the darkness.  Brittany Spears was belting out a fast-paced number, and people of all ages and sizes and colors and attire were moving on the packed floor.  It was as if confetti came to life and suddenly had a pulse.

Some were doing Hustle, some were dancing Cha-cha.  An old lady and a much younger man were just shaking it.  And everyone was having a good time.

I couldn’t help smiling.  Beaming, more like.   I wanted to be out there with them.  I wanted to hold the moment in my heart and mind and revel in the joy and connectedness I felt with these people.  I wanted to sing along and move too.

But it had been a long day and there would be more than enough dancing the next day.  So it was off to bed.

Early the next morning, I returned to find the same ballroom bathed in stark light, empty of people and seemingly sterile.  It was early, and the competition folk were busy skirting the floor bustling about to ready the room for the event.   Since we had the floor pretty much to ourselves, my dance instructor suggested we take to the floor for a warm up.

It felt good to move, to spin, to watch my skirt swirl about beneath me.  I wanted to stay on the floor.  Especially since a catchy number had just been put on as they checked the sound system.

Time passed and I spent lots of time on the floor that day.  I enjoyed every moment of it.  I even enjoyed watching others out on the floor.  Tall, thin, short, plump, trashy dancers, stiff dancers, natural dancers, unnatural dancers, men, women, every color of skin imaginable, English speakers, French, Russian, Spanish, undetectable, dresses plastered with rhinestones, jeans, hats, gloves, dresses barely covering anything, dresses covering everything, see-through shirts, lace, velvet, fringe, blond, brunette, old, young, professional, amateur, rumba, Fox Trot, Swing, Cha-Cha, Hustle, Waltz, Samba, Viennese Waltz, Peabody, Argentine Tango, Mambo, Tango…

It was a feast for my eyes and my heart.  I watched until it was my turn to dance, and I danced until it was my turn to watch.  And in the end, I realized, life is like this ballroom.

In choosing to dance, I become a single person moving to the rhythm of my environment to the best of my ability among others doing the same—all of us together bringing beauty out of chaos, energy out of movement and cooperation out of connectedness.  Sometimes we collided and not everyone was nice, but it didn’t matter because people were watching how you handled those collisions as much as they watched your most beautiful movement.  They cared about your ability to follow the technical aspects, but cared more for how well you enjoyed what you were doing.

That’s what mattered to the judges, but more importantly, that’s what mattered to me and to everyone who mattered.

I hope I always choose to dance.  To dance well.  And to always, ALWAYS enjoy it.

Valentine

My first Argentine Tango.

And just in time for Valentine’s Day, I’m in love with a dance.

Well, actually, I’m not sure if I’m in love with the dance, per se. Perhaps it was the experience. You be the judge, my Gentle Penguin.

It was nearly the end of the Friday night dance, and I’d been all over the floor Sambaing, Cha-Chaing, Rumbaing, Waltzing, Viennesing, Fox Trotting, and East Coast and West Coast swinging. The regular cast of characters had been there and many had left already. Only the die-hards were left. Plus one new face—a man who entered part way through the dance. We were short on men that night and he could dance, so I went about my dancing and my conversations as I would any other Friday night thankful that it left fewer women standing during dances.

Conversation had long since become easy and relaxed, with lots of laughter. And several of us had long since relaxed into enjoying the dancing. Less academic or perfectionistic, more enjoyable.

I had just finished a Viennese Waltz at the end of the ballroom near the beverages and, after thanking my partner for the dance, stepped off the floating wooden floor to get a glass of water when the studio owner grabbed my wrist and placed my hand dramatically, theatrically, in the new gentleman’s.

“She says you know what you’re doing,” he said to me somewhat quietly and softly. Almost apologetically. Or perhaps he was just bowing slightly as Asian men often do.

I laughed and nodded shyly. Perhaps a little worried that maybe I didn’t know what I was doing. Too late. He firmed his grasp and led me to the floor where a Hustle had just started.

I do know the Hustle. In my humble opinion, it’s the easiest dance to follow a lead. So I relaxed but not as much as I had previously. More academic, I decided.

He started off with a light touch. On my back, on my hand. We danced mostly open. So following a lead was a little more like guesswork than a normal Hustle, but still doable. After I followed a series of weaving steps, he stepped forward, thrust out his chest confidently, and firmly took hold.

I admit, my blood hummed and my ears buzzed just a bit with the excitement of the change in contact.

Our Hustle heated up as a Hustle aught while he led several steps that had me interwoven tightly and constantly in motion in his embrace. It reminded me of playing Twister. But more elegant. And totally fluid.

I noticed the floor clearing just as he released me with a lead for traveling spins. Thankfully, I’d finally gotten comfortable with spins and matched him spin for spin diagonally across the floor.

The music stopped and he grabbed my free hands firmly.

“Wait for it. Please.”

I wondered what I was waiting for, but I was happy for the moment of stillness after the spinning…or was it the excitement that had me slightly off balance? I wasn’t sure.

My ears recognized a Tango starting.

“Ah…do you by any chance know Argentine Tango?” his voice was still soft and quiet…but his dark eyes were sparkling.

“No,” I admitted disappointedly. “I haven’t learned Argentine.”

“Would you be willing to try? Would you be comfortable following a lead for steps….um…less ballroom? I wouldn’t normally ask, but you do seem like you know what you’re doing.”

“Yes!” I know it was almost breathless because about a thousand thoughts were flashing in my head, and I was sprinting hard mentally to keep up with them.

I would find out if I could follow a lead—the original reason for my taking up dancing. I would learn a new dance. I would get to continue the thrill humming through my blood. And it would be less ballroom. How exciting!

He invited me into his hold, and we began moving immediately. Slowly and stealthily, almost like an animal stalking prey. Not at all like the staccato steps I was used to. The way he held me—firmly—made my body naturally curve into his.

I was suddenly aware that he and I were the exact same height. And his arms were solid. As was his chest. He smelled good too. I liked the way his emotion for the dance showed on his face as we moved in what I can only describe as subtle sensuality. I felt gorgeous at that moment.

He stopped and stepped in place while giving me space to move around him. I almost blinked out of my fairy tale. “Think grapevine,” he whispered so that the skin on my neck—and subsequently everywhere else—registered the words instead of my ear.

At that moment I believed firmly in the electromagnetism of sound.

I wove my footwork around him until I felt him shift his hold and found myself naturally reversing my weaving the other direction. He stood suddenly pulling me close again, and I felt myself leaning backwards effortlessly into a dip.

I watched my free arm arc gracefully (elbow first, fingers holding the ever present invisible egg) over and behind me. One leg solid, the other sliding diagonally. My body firmly supported in a hold close to his. So close.

When I saw my reflection in the wall of mirrors I almost lost the line for the immense surprise of how beautiful it looked. I silently blessed ballet class and the ballet instructor.

Then I was standing again. And curved into his body as if we were a matching pair.

We stepped stealthily again, hesitating every few steps before spinning suddenly into an open fan. Again my arm seemed to know what to do and I watched it float out (with the invisible egg) and curve back in to me as he recalled me to him.

Then I was leaning backward again, except both hands were now trapped. One in his and the other against his solid chest. He smelled really good. And I noticed how dark his eyes were as he looked at me with the hooded gaze of someone engaged in the dance. I wondered what my eyes said…

The room was silent.

“Wow!” I heard one of the newer girls say behind me. “What dance is that and when do I get to learn it?”

I was standing again. He was bowing. I felt my knees give way into a curtsy as I’d been trained. My brain felt foggy.

My partner was beaming. “Thank you. I truly, most sincerely, enjoyed that dance,” he said to me as he lightened his touch on my hand guiding it to his bent arm and leading me to the edge of the floor while “boot scootin’ boogie” came on and everyone headed onto the floor for the line dance.

I needed a moment of solitude. And water.

As I lifted the glass to my lips I could smell his cologne on my hands. I paused just holding the glass to my lips, feeling the cold of the glass while my heart thumped wildly inside my chest.

Yes, it was the dance I fell in love with.

But I must say the experience was lovely.

Lost art of listening

There are times, Gentle Penguin, when I feel like I must be misplaced in life.  What seems obvious to me seems oblivious to others.  What logic seems straight forward and fine seems lost and bewildering to those around me.  And what language I speak must surely be foreign.

But it’s not just me.  Time and again I see it.  Someone goes to the trouble of voicing their thought, their idea, their opinion and rather than being met with interest or even acknowledgement, it’s banished to the great void of “that which shall not be heard.”

I used to think people were too busy to listen, but now…I’m not sure it’s that simple.  Don’t get me wrong, I highly doubt any of the ignoring and lack of listening is maliciously intended.  Worse, I think it’s indifferent.

Perhaps our minds are too full of the news we read on Facebook and Twitter, the thoughts and ideas that appear seemingly endlessly on our phones and computers that we’ve forgotten we’re dealing with people.

People, no less, who are standing right in front of us at the very moment they speak.

A Buddhist monk once said, “This moment right now is the most important moment in your life. The person in front of you right now is the most important person in your life. And the words you are speaking right now are the most important words you will ever say.”

But that’s not how it feels anymore.  It feels like I’m a distraction.  Worse, sometimes I feel like I’m invisible.

Now, I realize I’m an idealist, a romantic and even someone who should’ve been born in a different time.  But my goodness, I’m not ready to be invisible.

I mentioned this to a philosopher friend of mine who pointed me to a mutual psychology friend.  ”It’s called FOMO,” she said matter of factly as she puffed her cigarette serenely under a clear sky as we huddled in our woollen coats at a cafe table in a deserted patio.  ”Fear of missing out.  It’s actually affecting this nation worse than the plague in the Dark Ages.”

Apparently my Crackberry is about to haunt me because the symptoms are an over-obsessed preoccupation with anything that might be bringing some other message along.  And it’s all been made possible by technology.

Don’t worry, Gentle Penguin, I love my laptop and my iPhone and my iPod as much as the next person, but after my recovery from the Crackberry, I swore I’d reduce my dependence on it.  Some days are better than others, but then just when I fear I can’t overcome the Fates intercede on my behalf.  For instance, the other day, while walking across campus at one of my client’s, I was busily reading my e-mail on my iPhone when I heard a faint “ppppppoooooooouuuuuuuuufffffffffffffffffffff” over my left shoulder.

My mind immediately recognized it and sent shockwaves to my neurons in hopes of stimulating my attention away from the phone.  Which it did, thank goodness.  Looking up just behind me was a bright blue hot-air balloon skimming over the tree tops in an equally bright blue sky.  People looked over the edge of the basket waving.  My smile had to have been visible to them even from the tree tops as I reached up to wave back joyfully.

To think it had been that close and I almost missed it.  Because I was too busy worrying about missing out on some important e-mail or other.

Tell me, what e-mail could’ve been more important than that?  If it had been truly important, it should’ve warranted a phone call.  And even then, it likely wouldn’t have been more important than noticing a hot air balloon hovering over you in a clear blue sky in the middle of the afternoon in the midst of winter.

But it wouldn’t have warranted a call because people are almost as likely to call anymore as to write hand-written letters on paper and place them in addressed stamped envelopes.  They’d rather text with their improper grammar and spelling…and I’ve gone completely off my soap box…sigh!

I simply want to bring it to your attention that what we’re missing out on are actually the most important things in life—relationships with real people right here in front of us, small miracles in nature, serendipitous moments like balloons over your shoulder…

It makes me think of Marsha Brady’s episode of “something suddenly came up.”  I’m glad she ended up sorting it out and going to the dance with Charlie.  I know it was difficult and probably awkward to work through that, but she honored her word and I admire that.  Actually, I thank her for the example on how to do so.  I want to live up to my words too…even if no one is listening.

“This moment right now is the most important moment in your life. The person in front of you right now is the most important person in your life. And the words you are speaking right now are the most important words you will ever say.”  

Cleansing

For nearly two hours today I emptied my e-mail.

I threw away e-mails I intended to read, but never did; e-mail notifications about blogs I can read online; e-mail confirmations for books and music purchased throughout the life of my e-mail; e-mails I sent to myself to turn into blogs or wrote into my journal; e-mails from volunteer events that happened months and years ago; e-mail alerts of calendar events.

I threw away e-mails from Martha Stewart and Jackie Wicks and Diana Pemberton-Sikes.  I threw away e-mails with details about dates and karaoke nights and parties long since passed.  I threw away e-mails from teachers and coaches and Spanish instructors and choir directors and band leaders that have all faded into our history.  I threw away travel deals and expired online statements and library notices.

And then I was left with personal notes from friends, family and people who once meant something to me but have also faded away.

I admit, it was exhilarating to be rid of those messages—nearly 2,700 of them.  But when I saw I was only left with a little more than 700 that actually meant something to me, I felt oddly annoyed.  It seemed a bit out of proportion.

But what to do with these remaining 700?  I started at the back of the list, the ones for whom the most time had passed, and I began to read them.  As my heart rose and fell with the different messages, I began to wonder if I could actually delete them.  I mean, no one would need to know.  It wasn’t a crime to delete old messages.  But it somehow felt like when I’m standing in my closet examining the clothes and knowing deep down, even though I’m never going to wear some of them again, I should leave them hanging there for the thought.

Curiously, though, this past go round in the closet, I chucked all those clothes.  Somehow, the fact they were hanging in the back and never gave me thought except when I pulled them out year-after-year to determine whether to keep them didn’t seem compelling enough anymore.

What if I did the same to my e-mail?  I never reread these messages.  I had no reason to believe they would provide any handy reference to something important.  Why not just delete a few.  I held my breath and selected some then hit delete.

Silence.  No lightning strike or even a thunder rumble.  I selected several more.  Delete.  Still not a sound.  I stood up to refresh my tea and came back.  Nothing had gone amiss on my computer either.  So I selected an entire swath of e-mails and hit delete again.  There!  All my ex-boyfriends and dates’ messages were erased just like that.

I closed my eyes and waited for an emotion to tell me whether it was the right decision or not.  Nothing.  I went to the trashcan and deleted the whole lot…because I knew they were there still.  Then they were gone.  I waited again…and I felt……………..freed!  Freed from the weight of carrying around the history of failed relationships.  Freed from ever again spending hours over-analyzing the past.  Freed from the emotional baggage they represented.

I was eager to see what remained.

E-mails from my daughters alternately made me smile and cry for their charming sweetness.  Those I’d keep.  E-mails from my parents and brothers and sisters made me laugh out loud at the fun nonsensicalness we often find ourselves in the midst of.  I always needed a good laugh, and boy these were doozies!  And there…there was my pen-pal.

Gentle Penguin, have I ever told you I have a pen pal?  It’s not a real one in the sense of writing handwritten letters on paper and placed in addressed, stamped envelopes.  But for the past seven years, I’ve communicated on a regular basis with a person who I’ve only met once in person.  We actually met online as part of a professional communicators’ focus group when social media was just starting to take off.  Despite age, situation, and geographic differences, we seemed to be on the same wavelength and have been talking on that wavelength ever since.

Don’t get any ideas…nothing romantic ever did nor will happen with this friendship.  We’re not Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan.  We’re merely Monica and Jeff.  And we’re pen pals.  We talk about our work and our hobbies and our goals and newly sharpened pencils.  We bolster each other in times of despondency and celebrate in times of joy.  We rant and rave, whine and go off on tangents, we compare notes about music and movies and are always recommending books that drive the other to new interests.  I know about his wife, his sons, his father and his brother whose been missing for two years now in Roatan.  He knows about my girls, my dog, my business dealings and my dating life (or lack thereof for quite a while now!).

Re-reading our e-mails is like reading the story of my life.  How many thoughts I’ve written him have ended up in my blog.  How many questions I’ve sent out into the Universe that have subsequently been answered.  How many pieces of advice he’s given have come true.  It’s all there in that written history stored in my Gmail.

And I can’t delete it.  I won’t.  Leaving me with 473 e-mails.  It seems like a lot, but knowing the value of what they contain makes me feel like a rich woman!  And knowing I’ve rid myself of more than 3,000 e-mails that don’t bring me this kind of value…well, that my darling Gentle Penguins is cleansing.